My room is famously full of what most people think of as junk. There are my books, my collection of old Picture Post magazines, my suitcases full of other people's family photographs, and my collection of German inflation banknotes. There are the dinner menus of the Bishop of Rochester (bought for a song on eBay), Uncle Frank's collection of bus tickets, and my rather unique accumulation of old beer mats. When I point out to my dear wife and son that these collections have great value and in the event of me being suddenly taken from this vale of tears we call Brighouse, they should be preserved and cherished, they exchange that knowing look which is the prelude to them searching through the telephone directory for skip-hire firms. I recognise that one man's passion is another man's recycling, but I would like to record here on the internet, in full sight of the world, and in bold capital letters :
FOR GOD'S SAKE TAKE CARE OF MY NEGATIVES
These accumulated photographic negatives (and later digital files) which represent almost sixty years of clicking shutters are my legacy to whoever might think of me in years to come. They are my headstone and my obituary, and my entry in the accounts ledger of life.
Here are a couple, I scanned yesterday, dating back to the early 1980s.
|CROOKES VALLEY, LOOKING TOWARDS UPPERTHORPE, SHEFFIELD|
|BIRD ON A WIRE|